by Jane Goodger
“Is it a bad storm, Captain?”
“A fair-sized nor’easter churning up ahead. Now, you go below and don’t come up until Donovan comes to get you. All right, miss?”
“Of course.” That’s when she looked about the deck and saw the crew members scrambling about the ship doing last-minute checks and reinforcing what they’d already done. It’ll be all right. It has to be.
Two hours later, Maggie, black and blue from being tossed about her small cabin, sat up in her bunk, knocking her head hard against the railing. Bringing her hand up, she felt blood from a small gash. It was the noise that was perhaps the most frightening, even more than the feel of the ship being slammed again and again by what must be monster waves. The relentless, shocking bangs against the hull, the shrill scream of the wind, and the shouts of the other passengers who could barely be heard above the cacophony of the storm sent shards of icy fear down her spine. I should go to the other passengers, she thought, hearing a woman crying in the stateroom next to hers. It was an eerie sound, a whisper of despair, heard only during the infrequent lulls in the incessant noise. She heaved her feet onto the floor, and cried out. Swirling around her feet was at least three inches of ice-cold seawater.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
Just then, a particularly large wave smashed into the ship’s hull, driving Maggie to the floor, covering her with the water. Her skirts heavy with water, sticking to her legs already numb from the cold, Maggie made her way out the door and into the deserted hall. Moving drunkenly to the door next to hers, she let out a sound of frustration to find it locked.
“Miss Pierce, Miss Pierce!” She turned to see one of the young crewmen headed her way carrying a bundle of life jackets. “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, what are you doing out of your room?”
Maggie had to shout above the noise of the ship. “I was going to help Mrs. Fitzwilliam. She sounds terribly frightened.” He shoved a life jacket at her and banged on Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s door.
“Mrs. Fitzwilliam, it’s Donovan. You must put on a life jacket.” They both heard a wail of despair and looked at each other as if wondering what they should do.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. The boat is built to take on a bit of water. It’s supposed to,” Maggie said, lying through her teeth. Donovan looked at her as if she’d gone mad.
“Put the jacket on, miss,” Donovan said, dropping all but one jacket to the watery floor and helping her fasten the jacket. He banged on the door again. “Either you open the door, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, or I’m knocking it down.” He winked at Maggie, just to let her know he likely wouldn’t have to resort to such action. The door jiggled a bit before the panicked Mrs. Fitzwilliam realized it was locked; then it sprang open, a pale-faced, wild-eyed woman revealed.
“We’re sinking,” she shrieked, launching herself at Donovan, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
The ship seemed to climb, tipping so far Maggie feared it would stand on edge and flip over, and they all stumbled down the hall a bit, grabbing the railing, only to come crashing downward, leaving all three on the floor with water sloshing around them. Donovan starting whispering Hail Marys as he fumbled for the life jacket and put it on the now-docile Mrs. Fitzpatrick. His hands shook so hard the task was nearly impossible, and Maggie wondered if it was from the cold or from fear.
“Mr. Donovan, what should we do? Surely it’s not safe to stay below.” Maggie looked pointedly at her feet, where the water had risen halfway to her knees.
“The captain’s doing his best. We’ll be all right. Follow me,” Donovan shouted. The two women slogged behind the seaman, lifting their skirts above the water as best they could while hanging on to the safety rail. He led them up to a small salon, which was thankfully dry and which already contained the other three passengers, all men.
The two women, shivering violently, were ushered to a couch and blankets were produced, which was somewhat of a miracle, Maggie thought.
“I don’t want to die,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam cried.
“We’ll be fine.”
“Fine! Did you not see that water? We are only two decks below. That means all the other decks are now underwater. The ship cannot take this kind of pounding. We are all doomed. Why did I ever agree—”
“Shut the hell up, will you?” one of the men shouted, and Maggie tried not to laugh, but she pulled the older woman into a reassuring embrace.
The five passengers spent the remainder of the hellish night praying as the ship listed farther and farther to one side. They expected to abandon ship at any moment even though they prayed that somehow the ship would make it into port. It was the longest night of her life, spent alternately praying and trying to soothe Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who finally became subdued as if accepting their fate.
Maggie didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until a bright light touched her eyelids. The sun had risen and they were still afloat, though listing frighteningly to port. In truth, Maggie never thought to see the sun again, and to have it shining on her warm and reassuring after the nightmare they’d all just endured was something of a miracle.
Just as she was sitting up, Captain Sullivan came into their little salon, his face grim. “Ladies, gentleman. It appears we will have to depart the White Star a bit prematurely. There’s a fishing boat alongside us at the moment and if you’ll follow me, we’ll get you down to it promptly.”
Maggie stood, her legs cramping from the cold, and with the blanket still wrapped tightly around her, moved toward the door to follow the captain out.
“By God, we survived,” one of the gentleman said. “Well done, Captain. Well done.”
The seas, so violent the night before, were nearly calm. To the north were the clouds, dark and menacing, on the horizon no doubt pummeling some other poor ship.
“Thank you for making it through, Captain,” Maggie said.
The captain nodded. “It was a bit dicey, that, was it not?” he said, smiling.
“A bit more than dicey, I’d say.”
The captain looked out at the horizon, an odd expression on his face. It was a mixture of relief, sadness and wonder. Maggie knew exactly how he felt, blinking away the sting of tears in her eyes to be gazing at the rising sun, so very beautiful on the horizon.
“Now, miss, you can start livin’. There’s nothing on earth better for your soul than to look death in the eye and laugh at it.”
Maggie did laugh. “I’m afraid I wasn’t laughing very much last night,” she admitted.
“Nor was I, miss, nor was I.”
One day later, Maggie stepped on solid ground in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Her funds were woefully low, so she was grateful that the ship owners had agreed to pay for a respectable hotel and train fare to New York.
Maggie was beyond exhausted by the time the train pulled into Grand Central Terminal. She stood in the train station, other passengers bustling about her, and wondered what in God’s name she was doing in New York. Her great mission seemed ridiculous now. The loss of her virginity, even the circumstances surrounding it, was trivial suddenly. She was alive when she thought she’d be dead. Captain Sullivan had been right: now she could start living.
Standing among the mass of people streaming around her, Maggie knew she must see her father, despite his wishes that she not. She had to touch him, to look at his gentle brown eyes just to make certain he was all right. She’d heard terrible things about the prison where he’d been interned, a damp, crumbling building with little ventilation and even less light, and she prayed he was well.
But first she had to exorcise one last demon. She had to see Charles Barnes.
Chapter 20
Maggie knew she was a sight, but there was only so much one could do when nearly all of one’s possessions were at the bottom of the Atlantic. At least she was clean, she thought, looking down at the simple dress she wore. She looked like a maid on her day off, a maid with not enough sense to put on her winter coat or muffler on a bitterly cold December day. Instead she wore a
thin ready-made cloak that did little to shield her from the frigid Northeast winter. She needed the money she had left to pay for food and passage back to England. Clothes had suddenly become a luxury she could not afford. The small pistol she’d purchased in Liverpool before departing England had been in the same trunk as her clothes. Even if she could have afforded to buy another, she would not have. It was almost as if she’d been cleansed by the sea.
As she walked up two flights of gleaming marble stairs to the offices where her father used to work, she felt her determination grow with each step. Her father’s offices had been rich and tasteful, with thick carpeting beneath her feet and well-polished carved wood paneling on the walls. It was a masculinely appointed office, for nearly all the people who walked these halls were men. The masculine oppulence made Maggie feel even more conspicuous.
With a fortifying breath, she opened the door to the outside office, spying a man she did not recognize sitting at her father’s secretary’s desk. The door to her father’s office was opened, and appeared to be deserted.
“I’m here to see Mr. Barnes,” she said, trying to sound imperious as she stood there in her cheap cotton gingham dress.
“Mr. Barnes is not in,” he said, even though she could clearly hear him blustering behind the closed mahogany door. The secretary looked her up and down, a small but discernible sneer on his face. He was one of those men Maggie instantly disliked, but even that sneer could not tamper her resolve. She looked pointedly at the door.
“Please tell Mr. Barnes that Margaret Pierce is here to see him,” she said, putting a slight emphasis on her last name.
The secretary’s eyebrows rose in recognition and he seemed suddenly unsure what to do.
“I am not leaving until you tell Mr. Barnes I am here. And when he does come out of that office, I will inform him that you refused my entry.”
Looking decidedly put out, the man stood and walked to the door, entering the office much like a snake slithers between two rocks. He returned shortly, standing at the open door and beckoning her to enter. Maggie hesitated, for she’d heard Barnes talking to someone, and the things she needed to say to him could not be said with company. When she entered the room, the secretary closed the door quietly behind her, and she had a stomach-churning memory of another time when Barnes himself had quietly shut the door to his office.
None of it mattered, Maggie told herself as she looked around the hated room. Other than Barnes’s soft form, the room was empty. She was momentarily confused until she noticed the telephone on his desk.
“We are quite alone, dear,” he said smoothly, apparently interpreting her confusion. “You are looking…” He paused, taking in her cheap dress, her simply adorned hair. “…well.”
“I am anything but well, Mr. Barnes,” Maggie said, coming forward into the room. She would not be afraid of him, she would not. But just then she wished she had her pistol, if only for the courage it gave her.
He offered her a seat, extending his strangely feminine hand to indicate a chair. “I will stand,” she said, glad that her voice didn’t shake. Lord knew her entire body did.
“I thought you were in England,” he said, still smiling as if this were a casual social call.
“I was. But I returned to New York to kill you.” Maggie almost laughed aloud at the alarm in his puttylike face. “Don’t worry,” she said with a smile. “I don’t have the gun with me. I changed my mind.”
“I think you should leave,” Barnes said, starting to come round to the front of his desk.
“No,” Maggie said, a sense of calm determination filling her. “I think I cannot possibly leave until I tell you what a despicable human being you are.”
Something almost human flickered in his eyes before he returned to his luxurious leather chair, the same chair she’d stared at when he’d entered her from behind. “Do tell.”
He was mocking her, but Maggie didn’t care. “I was an innocent girl desperate to help her father. And you took terrible advantage of me. You cannot know how desperate I must have been to allow you to touch me,” she said, feeling bile rise in her throat. “Did you feel flattered perhaps? That such a young girl was willing to have you? Let me tell you, I never would have allowed you to touch me if I had known you would not follow through on your promise. You make me literally sick, just being in the same room with you. I did what I thought I had to. And for the longest time, I was angry with myself. How could I have allowed such a vile creature as you to touch me, to take away the one thing I could give to my husband? Then I grew angry with you. Terribly so. I suppose planning your murder proves that. But now, looking at you, I realize you are pathetic, less than a man. Not worthy of my anger or hatred. I just wanted to tell you that. Good day, sir.”
Maggie was vaguely aware of Barnes’s face growing more and more red, but didn’t care. When she finished, however, she became instantly aware of just how angry she’d made him. He stood so abruptly his chair flew across the floor and slammed into the bookcase behind him.
“I am a man of honor,” he shouted.
Maggie laughed, further enraging him. “Honor. Do you call what you did to me honorable?”
He was breathing heavily, like an angry bull about to charge, his wide nostrils flaring, making him look rather piggish, and Maggie was glad they were separated by his large desk. He slowly got control of himself, though his face was still florid. “No,” he said, surprising her. “No, it was not. But I have followed through on my promise.”
“My father was sentenced to five years,” Maggie said. “You promised me one.”
He appeared taken aback. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
He smiled. “Your father is being released in seven months. One year to the date of his sentencing. Perhaps you’d like to thank me,” he said, leering at her almost as if he was compelled to act like the evil man she knew him to be.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I told you he’d spend no more than one year in prison and he will not. Check with his attorney if you’d like,” he said dismissively, as if he’d grown bored with their discussion. “I’m surprised no one has contacted you.”
Maggie was stunned. “When did this happen?”
“One month ago, at least.” He smiled again, making her skin crawl. “A very nice Christmas present for you, my dear.”
“I am not your ‘dear,’” Maggie said, regaining some of her ferocity. “And while I am grateful that my father is being released, if indeed that happens, what I’ve said about you still stands.”
He gave her a mocking bow. “Of course. My dear. And Merry Christmas.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes at him and smiled. “In the spirit of Christmas,” she said sweetly, “I think I really should thank you for what you’ve done.”
The idiot actually grinned at her, which only gave Maggie more courage. She stood directly in front of him, looking into his piggy eyes. From his perspective, he saw a beautiful woman with a bit of the devil hidden in the sparkle of her eyes.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Barnes,” she said, curling her fist just the way her brothers had taught her and slamming it as hard as she could into his soft belly. It sunk in perhaps four inches, knocking the wind from him, making him double over gasping for breath.
“Good day,” she said, calming, and walked from the room, her face glowing with happiness at the sound of angry, helpless sputtering behind her.
Maggie Pierce, who had lost a bit of herself all those months ago, was back.
Chapter 21
“You are such a grump lately,” Amelia said without preamble to her brother as she entered his study. As usual, she found Edward behind his desk, a pile of paper in front of him. The morning sunlight made his fair hair seem to glow about his head, a fallen angel, she thought whimsically. He looked tired lately, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. And his hair, usually meticulous, was a mess, as if he was constantly tunneling his fingers through it. Indeed, he looked li
ke a man who’d been up all night in the clubs drinking. Yet Amelia knew this wasn’t true, for he hadn’t left the house in days and he rarely drank. “You’re even more gloomy than normal.”
“I have a lot on my mind,” he said, and she noted he didn’t even try to deny he’d been disagreeable. “I’ve a meeting with my property manager later today to discuss why nearly all my tenants are unable to pay full rent. And a sister who is convinced she’s in love with a cowboy.”
Amelia smiled. Anytime anyone mentioned Carson, good or bad, she smiled. She simply couldn’t help it. He was arriving at Meremont later today and Edward’s scowl when she mentioned this fact was enough to set her off in fierce defense of her beloved. She knew she must be the envy of all her friends, because they’d all been as enthralled with Carson before he’d come to the Christmas ball. How in the world she’d ever gotten him to fall in love, she didn’t know. She didn’t understand why her brother was so against the only man she’d ever loved.
And he did love her. She just knew he did. Surely a man couldn’t smile at her as he did, kiss her, touch her in the way Carson did, without loving her.
“I am in love with him,” she said. “What do you think I should wear?”
“Why do you think I would care?” he asked, playing a rhyming game they’d often played when they were children.
“Because you are so fair,” she quipped.
Edward smiled indulgently. “Fair as in handsome or fair as in I’m evenhanded?”
“That didn’t rhyme,” she said, but she smiled because she was so glad to see her brother acting more like himself. “You have seemed awfully busy,” she said, coming around his desk to look at what he was working on. Spying a book he’d been carrying with him since they’d been at Bellewood, she laughed.
